


ian gallagher is a dead man

by tinyinkstainedbird



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyinkstainedbird/pseuds/tinyinkstainedbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens between the night that Mickey comes out until the morning that Ian can't get out of bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ian gallagher is a dead man

They had five days.

5.

On the first day, Mickey wakes up in the morning to Ian’s finger lightly tracing along the ridge of his broken nose. Mickey is abused, he’s traumatized, he’s scared all the fucking time – he’s not a boy who has ever been woken softly by someone who loves him, so he grabs Ian by the wrist, squeezing the tendons, breathing hard.

“Stop,” he snaps.

“Did I hurt you?” Ian asks.

“No,” Mickey mutters, and doesn’t have to say _that’s why I stopped you_ because they both understand well enough.

Ian snatches his hand back. He’s stronger than Mickey, maybe not in the way he is, or who he is, but he’s strong and fast and could overpower and hurt him in a heartbeat. Ian Gallagher knows a hundred ways to kill a man and his arms could break you in half and his fists are swollen and his knuckles are bloody from last night, but this morning all he does is hold Mickey’s face in his hand. Gentle. Thumb stroking a bruise so it hurts sweetly, the way Mickey likes it. 

“You’re okay,” Ian whispers.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes.

“You’re good.”

Mickey looks at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he promises. “You don’t even know.”

“Sorry,” he says, his breath still coming out jagged, his chest shaking. “If last night was a fucking dream, you need to tell me right now.”

Ian grins. “Would dream-me do this?” He pushes himself up off his elbow, trapping Mickey between his arms and throwing a leg over his waist to straddle him. Then he leans down, hand still holding his face, and kisses him, rough at first until Mickey trusts him and lets him be sweet.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, and then he laughs. “Dream-you would definitely do that.”

“Well,” Ian says. “Get used to it.”

So Mickey does.

4.

On the second day, Ian wakes up first like he always does. He’s been up for hours when he takes a flying leap and lands at Mickey’s feet on the bed, scaring the motherloving shit out of him, pinning his legs down and wrapping arms around him from behind. Mickey is a willing captive, but he struggles and curses because this is the game they play; of course they’re a couple but he’s not going to be anybody’s Stockholm syndrome bitch. “Get the fuck off me,” he snaps, grinning when Ian responds by nibbling on his ear.

“What do you wanna do today?” Ian asks, snuggling into him, and Mickey’s too goddamn in love with him to know that the desperation in his touch should worry him. Ian wants to hold him, fine. A little too tight, whatever. They’re fucking allowed. They’re fucking free. It's okay.

“I gotta go to work,” Mickey says. “So do you.”

“Okay, but what about before that?” Ian asks, sitting up in bed because he can’t stay still.

“I don’t know, fuck,” Mickey says, also sitting up, running a hand through his hair. “I just woke up.”

“I was thinking we could go on a date.”

“Do you have to fucking call it that?”

“Why not?” Ian asks, a puppy that wants to play, tilting his head, wounded. “You’re my boyfriend, aren’t you?”

Mickey sighs. “Yeah,” he says, and he sounds impatient but his heart is actually doing this sinking thing he’s starting to love. “I am.”

“Then let’s go on a date.”

“Okay, douchebag,” Mickey says. “Let’s go on a fucking date.”

+

Ian can't stop laughing.

"Shut the fuck up," Mickey snaps, smiling grumpily.

"No, I need to take a picture."

"I'll take a picture of your dead fucking body," Mickey snaps, ripping Ian's phone out of his hands. "I'm serious, fuck off."

Ian just sits there and smiles at him. He knows he's been feeling too much lately; he knows he's a little off, that other people don't feel like they're free-falling every second of the day. That this rush he feels all the time isn't good, that when he hits the ground he's going to fucking splatter. He knows. Kind of. He's seen it before. But he's just so fucking in love that he thinks maybe Mickey's going to break his fall. He can only hope that he doesn't hurt Mickey when the crash comes.

Especially looking at him now, this overgrown kid without a childhood, scowling with his arms crossed over his puffed-out chest, wearing a pair of blue and red bowling shoes. His feet are two and a half sizes smaller than Ian's and he's never gone bowling before and all Ian wants to do is put an arm around him and tell him what a good life he's going to have from now on because he's going to look after him. He's going to memorize every nice thing that Mickey's never done, and he's going to make sure they do them together. Starting now.

"Come on, let's put our names in the thing," Ian chuckles, nipping Mickey's elbow with two fingers, urging him to follow him over to the computer at their lane.

Mickey hovers beside him uncomfortably while Ian types Mickey's name in, and then he shoves him aside so he can take over and put Ian's name in.

Ian rolls his eyes as he sees what Mickey's typing. "You're gonna get us kicked out."

Mickey smirks, a little proud of himself. "What? It's your name."

"Hilarious," Ian says, fighting a smile as he looks up at the TV above their lane, displaying their names for the entire bowling alley to see: Lane 6 was Mickey versus Firecrotch, and they were currently tied zero-zero. "Go bowl, assface."

Laughing, Mickey strides over to the ball return and picks out the heaviest one.

"Hey, Mick, you might wanna pick one that's a little lighter--"

"Eat me, Firecrotch," he barks, slipping his fingers into the holes like he saw on that movie with that Lebowski guy. As he lugs it over to the lane, he realizes it's heavier than he thought it would be, but like hell he's going to go back for a lighter one.

He extends his arm behind him and follows through best as he knows how, letting the ball go a little too early so that it goes up and falls and makes a loud bang when it hits the ground. Everyone in the room looks at him. He turns away and walks back to Ian so he can't see it roll into the gutter.

"That was pretty good for a first throw," Ian tells him, smiling when Mickey's scowl just deepens.

"This is a stupid fucking game," Mickey grumbles.

"You still have another throw," Ian says. "Come on, I'll show you how to throw it."

"I know how to fucking throw a ball."

"I know you do," Ian says. "But I know a trick. And I don't show just anybody."

Mickey just watches him for a second as he shrugs off his winter coat and goes to the ball return. Sometimes it's so obvious that Ian's an older brother, and that he's a good one, just like sometimes it's so obvious that despite who his parents are, Ian was well-taken care of and loved. Mickey can just see him teaching Carl how to build a fire or teaching Debbie the best routes to take home at night so no one bothers her, and what to do if someone did. Mickey's older brothers never taught him how to do anything besides what to do with a dead body so it can't be identified by the police.

"Think of it as throwing a football underhand," Ian says as they stand side by side at the foul line, facing the taunting white pins and holding a ball that's just a little lighter than the last one. "Keep your arm straight as you swing it back and follow through gently and release at the last possible moment. You're also gonna want to take a few steps to get some momentum, and line the ball up with the little arrows here, see?" Ian mimed the proper way to throw the ball, and when he looked back up, Mickey was trying not to smile. "What?"

"Nothing, man," Mickey chuckles. "Can we just hurry up here so we can go home and bang?"

Ian laughs. "We paid for two games. And we're gonna play them."

"You're such an asshole."

"A fun-loving asshole."

Mickey wrestles the ball back from Ian and looks out at the pins. He's trying not to smile, but -- fucking Gallagher. He looks over at Ian, who's grinning openly, and raises his eyebrows impatiently. "What the fuck you lookin at? I can't throw the ball with you fucking standing there."

"Okay," Ian laughs, his hand skimming the small of Mickey's back as he walks away. "I'll go get snacks. You're gonna love the nachos here, they're disgusting."

Mickey doesn't know how to thank him for leaving him alone; he doesn't know how Ian knows how much he hates other people to watch him fuck up. All he can do is just wait until Ian's standing with his back to him, waiting his turn in the food line, and then he tries to throw the ball the way Ian showed him. Like it's a football.

He knocks three goddamn pins down.

Ian comes back and wins the first game easily with a score of 174 to 89. He assures Mickey that’s a fucking amazing score for his first time, that one time Debbie didn’t even break 20 and she’s gone bowling a million times. Mickey doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to be compared to people Ian loves. He just wants to be good.

And so when the second game begins and he throws a strike, Mickey doesn’t stop Ian from kissing him. They have so much to celebrate and he doesn't give a fuck who sees.

And when Ian goes to work that night, he doesn’t get high and he doesn’t let anyone touch him more than they have to. But when they do anyway, he thinks of Mickey and it’s okay. For the first time in a long time, it’s okay.

And Ian starts to learn that feeling okay is way fucking scarier than free-falling.

+

3.

On the third day, Mickey wakes up to a hand sliding down from his chest to his stomach to the front of his boxers. Yawning, Ian's hand grips Mickey's waist and pulls him tighter against his body, gently rolling his hips.

He's not even sure that Ian's fully awake -- although he probably is because Ian's always up before he is -- so his voice is quiet when he whispers, "What are you doing?"

"Sleeping," Ian mumbles back, burrowing his face into the crook of Mickey's neck. He drapes his arm back over Mickey's shoulder and holds him like he's a teddy bear while continuing to grind against him with slow, lazy thrusts.

Mickey closes his eyes and Ian smiles at his sleepy whine of annoyance and pleasure. He lets Ian push up against him a couple more times before he rolls onto his back and shoves him away.

Ian raises an eyebrow.

Mickey scowls. "There's too many kids in this fucking house. Let's go to my place."

They dress quickly.

+

There isn't a lot that can make Mandy Milkovich smile anymore, but she almost does when she sees her brother walk through the front door with her best friend. They're laughing, arguing animatedly over some bullshit action movie, and Ian's hand is on Mickey's shoulder.

Mickey is happy.

 _"What_?" Mickey snaps at her when he passes the kitchen and sees her staring at them.

"Nothing," Mandy replies, lifting the corner of her mouth into a knowing smirk that she offers to Ian. She heard what happened at the christening; everyone did. 

She hasn't been happy in a long time, not since that moment when Lip showed up at Mickey's wedding and she'd thought he'd come because he really did love her, before he called her a cunt and dragged his wasted heartbroken brother away from hers.

But she looks at them now, and she almost is. Not really, but almost.

"You okay?" Ian asks her before they disappear into Mickey's room.

She nods.

"Where's your piece of shit boyfriend?" Mickey snaps, although there's always something soft when he talks to his sister, no matter what he says.

"How the fuck should I know?" she snaps back, and Ian wants to smile because they're so alike, these two, but he can't, because he's too sad for her. Her piece of shit boyfriend can leave bruises on her face but he can't tell her where he goes when he leaves the house.

"What are you up to today?" Ian asks.

"Don't know. Day off."

"Us too," he smiles. "We were gonna hang out."

"'Hang out,'" she says, her fingers putting quotations around the words as she smirks wryly at them.

Mickey rolls his eyes at Ian, and then at his sister. He'd had other things on his mind, but whatever. "Been awhile since I kicked your ass at _Need for Speed_."

Mandy looks at him for a moment, and then, finally, really smiles. "Gonna _be_ awhile, too," she says. "You're on."

She's sitting on the couch between the two men that love her most in the world when Kenyatta walks through the front door that night. She flinches and wilts and takes away her smiles and expert shit-talking and teasing and love of winning with her as she retreats within herself and hands her XBox controller off to Ian before she scampers off to make him dinner.

Ian understands why Mickey wants to sleep here and not at the Gallaghers. Too many fucking kids, and too fucking far from Mandy.

They go to bed, waiting to jump at the first noise they hear, and as they lie there and both take comfort in knowing that the other will help him protect that girl from that piece of shit, they find one more reason why they need to be together.

2.

On the fourth day, Ian lets Mickey wake up on his own for once, and then he tells him that his ribs feel better today.

Mickey wipes sleep from his eyes, and then he grins. "Yeah?"

Ian nods, propping himself up on his elbow, letting his hand roam over Mickey's body, his thumb dragging a slow pattern of feather soft strokes over the freckles and scars he passes on the way down to his hipbones. He loves every pale and broken inch of him; he loves every bit of scar tissue and every bone that never healed right; he hopes the kisses he presses on his skin from neck to thigh tell him every _I love you_ he hasn't heard.

Ian sucks dick and fucking loves it just as much as Mickey does, mostly because of the sounds he tries not to make. He loves the silent gratitude and the way he hits the back of his throat and digs his heels into the sheets. He loves when Mickey feels good.

And then he sits back and he loves the way Mickey returns the favour, loves the way he lets Ian guide him onto his back or onto his knees, whatever he wants. He loves when they fuck face-to-face, because then he gets to see that Mickey sometimes suddenly smiles, and he loves how they fuck like a storm, when Ian's hips are rolling and crashing and Mickey's smile is the lightning and he's so close it hurts.

And he loves that Mickey listens when he tells him _not yet_ and he loves that he bites his lip and waits for Ian to catch up, eyes closed, ankles digging into Ian's shoulders, and Ian laces his fingers with Mickey's, pushing their hands down into the bed as he pumps his hips harder and faster.

He loves that Mickey never tells him to shut up when he comes too loud, how he never tells him to get the fuck off when his body slumps forward and down onto him. Ian loves that Mickey just lets him stay there, chest-to-chest, Ian's forehead pressed against Mickey's cheek as they catch their breaths and calm their hearts.

"Fuck," Mickey pants. He drapes one arm over Ian's back while his other arm reaches for the pack of smokes on his bedside table. He shakes a cigarette out, lights it, and blows smoke. "Missed that."

The smoke makes Ian roll onto his back. He's trying to quit. The smell always reminds him of fucking Mickey, and that was why he'd tried to quit in the first place. Now he's just trying to stop because he doesn't want to die. He wishes Mickey would quit, too.

"There's more where that came from," Ian tells him with a sly grin and no intention of putting clothes on any time soon.

+

Later, Mickey slips his boxers on long enough to go grab food from the kitchen, and when he returns, Ian fucks him over the edge of the bed because fifteen minutes gone was too long. After, they eat their grilled cheese sandwiches cold and take a nap.

"Do you still draw?" Ian asks, when they wake up, long after the stars have come out. Mickey's sitting up smoking, but Ian's tired. He doesn’t know why. His head is on Mickey's leg.

"No," Mickey says. His hand is on Ian's shoulder.

"Why not?"

"Because it's fucking stupid."

"No it isn't. You're really good."

"How the fuck would you know?"

"There used to be drawings on your wall," Ian tells him. "I always figured you drew them."

"I did. When I was a stupid kid."

"You're still a stupid kid," Ian smiles. "Wanna know how I knew you were good?"

Mickey doesn't say anything.

"Because of the way you wrote my name."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"When Mandy told you I hurt her," Ian says. "And you were trying to kill me."

"And?"

"The graffiti that you wrote on the wall," Ian reminds him. _"'Ian Gallagher is a dead man.'"_

"Yeah, I remember," he mutters.

"I just remember thinking, like --" Ian laughs. "I knew you were going to kill me but I saw the way you wrote my name and I realized you were an artist."

Mickey lets his cigarette dangle from his lips in a daze. "It was just spray paint."

"I know," he says. "But that's why I couldn't give up on you. I knew there was more to you."

Mickey clears his throat. He doesn't know how to respond, but he knows he should. "Thanks," is all he can think of.

"I think you should start drawing again."

"Thanks," he says again, because Ian is the only fucking person on the planet who would ever think to say something like that to him.

Ian lifts his head up to look at him. "Did I lose you?"

"No."

"You're quiet."

"So?"

Ian puts his head back down and shrugs his shoulders, curling his body up closer. "Nothing."

"What?"

"Just wondering if we're ever going to be able to talk to each other."

"We talk to each other all the fucking time," Mickey says. "We're talking right now."

"I mean about real stuff," Ian says. "Couple stuff. Feelings."

Mickey rolls his eyes. "I don't talk about feelings."

"Why?"

"I just don't."

"Has anyone ever told you they love you before?"

Startled, Mickey exhales smoke and coughs. "No," he snaps. "So shut the fuck up."

"Why can't it be me?" Ian asks.

"It is you," Mickey snaps. "All right? I know it's you."

"But you won't let me say it?"

"What's the point?"

"The part where you hear it."

"I don't need a bunch of words that everybody and their fucking mother says," he says. "It's not about what you say; it's about what you do."

"What if what I do isn't enough?" Ian asks.

"It is," Mickey tells him. "It always has been."

"And what about me?"

Mickey knows what he means. "I've never said it before. To anyone," he mutters. "You just gotta give me a break, okay?"

"Okay." Ian hesitates, and then decides to try anyway. "But you do too?"

"What the fuck do you think?"

Ian smiles. And then he closes his eyes, as if someone just pulled a switch. Suddenly, he feels heavy and exhausted, like every mile he ran has finally caught up to him. He feels every step he took all at once in every bone in his body and he wonders how he ever managed to run so far.

“Hey,” Mickey says, bouncing his knee. “You sleeping?”

Ian murmurs yes.

"You slept all day," Mickey says. "Why are you so tired?"

"Because I think this is the happiest I've ever been."

When you’re on top of the world, you can only fall for so long before you crash. If Mickey had known that, he never would have let Ian fall asleep that night.

1.

On day five, Mickey wakes up first.


End file.
